Epilogue Logan
I start with the digital cuff, then switch to the manual one.
It’s been a while since I’ve done the basics myself—before the clinic, I’d forgotten how much I leaned on my PAs and nurses for this.
I’m slower than I should be, more careful than necessary.
My father admitted he felt the same way when he started coming in part-time, cutting back his surgical hours to consult only on specialty cases.
He’s close to retirement, anyway. Even my mom volunteers here, helping Rose in the office.
It’s… fuck, it’s everything. Having my whole family here.
My heart, the love of my life, seeing her dream thrive. And I get to be a part of it. It’s addictive, almost.
“Alright, Joe, take a deep breath for me.” His lungs don’t sound good.
He’s unhoused, and the stench coming off him is hard to lean into, but this is the second time he’s trusted me enough to treat him, and I’m not taking that lightly.
The cough still hasn’t cleared. Not TB, at least, but he’ll probably need antibiotics.
It’s December. I don’t think he’s sleeping in a shelter, but he’s evasive when I bring it up.
“Sounds a little better than last time. I’d like to keep tabs on it, though. Can you come back in two weeks?”
He shrugs. “I dunno. Might be busy.”
“Fair enough. If you aren’t though, I’ll be here. You don’t have to make an appointment, remember, just come in. Tuesdays.”
“Tuesdays,” he repeats.
I’m here most days, but capacity is the real problem now.
Word spread, and the clinic is busy in ways we weren’t ready for.
The other side of the building runs yoga and high-end wellness programs that actually turn a profit, which is the only reason the free clinic doesn’t sink us entirely.
It won’t ever be profitable on its own. That’s not the point.
Between grants, donations, and what I’ve put in personally, it stays afloat.
And it should exist, no matter what it costs.
Joe hops off the table without meeting my eyes.
“Hey—let me show you around before you head out.”
He hesitates. “I’m alright.”
“Humor me.”
We keep the flip-flops and towels out in the open on purpose.
People take them for showers, and that’s the idea—but getting someone like Joe to actually use the shower is its own negotiation.
He won’t today. But he lights up a little at the donated clothes room and leaves with a new scarf and a heavy jacket layered over the old one he wouldn’t part with.
That’s fine, though it should be burned.
After Joe leaves, I clean up, then treat a few more patients.
Mostly just simple check-ups. There are quite a few people who come in who just can’t afford health insurance.
We offer a sliding scale. Those visits are easier than the ones with people like Joe, but no less frustrating.
They need help, and they couldn’t get it anywhere else. Couldn’t afford it.
Getting Rose to agree to expand into a full clinic took some work—she spiraled into the old impostor syndrome, which made me want to find Roger and punch him in the face.
I talked her through it, though it was an argument that lasted weeks.
I reminded her of everyone in her corner, how much sense it made.
She came around. The practice is still hers—the holistic approach, the natural remedies—but with a little more of my world folded in.
She’s gone to grab dinner. We’ve been eating takeout here a lot of nights, but we’ll have to find a balance soon.
I wave goodnight to Roger, who also volunteers here.
Not as often as my dad and I, but he lives further away, it takes over an hour to get here.
He and Rose are in a much better place, and that has, weirdly, a lot to do with Pearl.
Down the hall, a yoga class is letting out. I can feel the warmth coming through the walls as fifty people file past. I keep moving, cleaning up as I go. It’s humbling work, being here.
I have to get back to the hospital tomorrow. Part-time isn’t easy at my age—hospitals have contracts, expectations. But we manage. It helps that they’ve been trying to partner with The Resilience Project. Good optics for them.
Rose comes in a few minutes later, and I walk her to the office.
She’s got bags of Thai food, and she’s talking a mile a minute.
I watch her unpack everything while telling me about the drive to grab dinner, about some scheduling conflict.
Somewhere in there, she asks how Joe is, then changes the subject again and asks when I have to be at work tomorrow.
The little velvet blue box in my jacket, hanging by the door, seems to glow.
It could be more romantic, I suppose.
But it couldn’t be more us.
Rose is scooping Pad See Ew onto a plate, licking sauce off her finger. I get the box from my jacket. She narrows her eyes and wipes her hand on her shirt.
“Baby.”
Her breathing slows, yet somehow grows more audible.
I come around the desk. I ease her into the chair, then get down on my knees and drop my head into her lap and breathe her in.
“I think you saved me. I didn’t realize I needed it until you came along.
I’m so in love with you I can barely breathe sometimes.
I want to be with you forever. Buy you red dresses, spend all our money, fuck you while you sleep and while you’re awake.
I can never get enough of you. Will you marry me? ”
She’s still breathing slowly. She wipes a tear from her eye.
“Can we still argue when we’re married?”
“Yeah, baby. Don’t think that part’s going away.” I laugh a little.
“Then, fuck yes. Let’s get married.”
I open the box. It’s a vintage diamond, but I had it reset in a new band. Low-profile, princess-cut setting, glittering gold and pink.
“It’s beautiful,” she cries. I put it on her finger. I measured it while she was sleeping—I’ve been finding more and more things to do to her while she’s passed out. Something about seeing her like that, completely unguarded and trusting. Completely mine.
Might be something we need to revisit at some point. I’ve been fantasizing about jacking off and covering her tits with my cum, in dark, possessive need, while she’s sleeping. I think she’d be cool with that, though. Better be sure.
The ring fits perfectly, and she crashes into my arms. Since we aren’t alone, all we do is kiss. But we eat Thai food, and eventually close up, and drive home together.
And later that night, after fucking her raw, spilling my soul deep inside her, I fall asleep with the most perfect woman in the world in my arms.
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Lemon & The Troublemaker
Chapter 1
Mason
Stretching my hand out in front of me, the skin around each knuckle pulls taut against the healing cuts, the tiny lacerations nearly scabbed over.
The sting does nothing to sate that buzzing inside of me.
It’s itchy, almost. Like when you have too much energy and it whips around inside you, with nowhere to go. Hence the bloody knuckles.
I’ve always been a scrapper, but these past two years, unable to paint—my usual vice—I can’t keep myself from wanting to punch every motherfucker who looks at me wrong.
I’ve been in more bar and street fights than I can count.
Usually, just enough to scratch the surface of that itch, but lately, the scales tip, and I can’t hold myself back.
I’ve always had an addictive personality.
I guess that’s just this year’s addiction.
I debate stretching out along the bench I’m sitting on to get a little shut-eye, but the ornate metal frame is too short for my body. I’ve slept in worse places, though. Heaving an exaggerated sigh, I lean back instead, the cool metal biting into my back.
Looking up at the stars, there’s not much I care about at this moment, aside from the scent of food trucks lingering in the air, making my stomach feel emptier than it is. Padding around in my pocket, searching for a pack of smokes, I find my phone vibrating instead.
I’m tempted to ignore it, but I’m in a rare, moderately chill mood, so I lean back on the bench and empty my pockets. My brother’s pompous face flashes on the screen, so I set that aside and open the pack, pulling out a light.
“?Oye! ?Un cigarrillo? ?Fumar?“ A couple of young tween-looking delinquents stop in front of me, kicking their skateboards up. I shake the pack out, passing them a few cigarettes, lighting my own as they step back on their boards and sail on by.
My phone rings again, and this time I answer.
“Winston,” I let out a stream of smoke. My voice is scratchy, not having used it in… days? When was the last time I talked to someone?
“Mason. I’m surprised you answered.”
“Well, you called twice. Thought it might be important.” I try not to snicker, but sarcasm comes naturally.
“So, you ignored the first ring?” He muses. I inhale the smoke, leaning back again on the public bench. When I don’t respond, he continues, “So, where are you this time?”
I look around me, taking in my surroundings—the fulsome trees and metalwork that cages in the park, a few blocks down from one of the most famous churches in the world.
I came to Barcelona to see the inside of La Sagrada Família, the hand-carved trees, and richly detailed sculptures.
It’s legendary architecture, and I actually coughed up nearly a hundred euros to see it.
“Barcelona,” I tell him, taking another drag.
“You smoking?”